Heart to Hand

A crunch of teenage girls, some clad in blue, some in maroon, scrambled to one side of the basketball court. All I could see were the numbered backs of the opposing team. Somewhere in that mix was my daughter. Then two hands, very familiar to me, appeared above a clutch of brunette, pony-tailed heads. In these hands was the basketball.

The ball left those hands and sailed over the crop of heads, dropping into the net as easily as Santa dropping candy into a stocking. All around me people cheered. I double-checked to make sure those hands were the same ones that I had held crossing busy streets not so long ago. A parent sitting next to me confirmed it. I hollered my own, belated praise for my daughter even as the ball sailed down the court to the other side of the gym for the next play. This was several years ago, when my daughter was still in high school. It was 1999, the year of the first hand transplant. When I saw my daughter’s hands rise above the press of players that night, I couldn’t help but think of this surgery milestone. Our hands are more than just utensils that turn a key, hold a spoon, steer a car or toss a basketball. Much more.

With our hands we offer safety to a child. We brush away their tears with our hands. We tousle their hair. We stroke a fevered forehead. We push a swing, rub their backs, tie their shoes, and extend help.

With our hands we show delight. We applaud greatness. We cover our mouths with our hands when we laugh or meet with a surprise. We cover our eyes with our hands when we’re afraid even though we have eyelids for that. We scratch our heads when there is no itch. When wearied, we rest our foreheads in our hands as if to create a hammock for the brain. We wring our hands when dread sets in. We clench them when anger rises.

As children we are taught to raise our hands to let the teacher know we are there. When we fall in love we hold hands. When we marry we join hands. We exchange rings that forever rest on the fingers of our hands. When we come to the end of our lives and one is at the bedside of the other, the one who must stay behind holds the hand of the one who is dying.